


Twist and Pull

by Tepre



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 8th year, A lil fluff, Draco says "I say!" a lot, M/M, a lil angst, harry just wants some goshdarn rest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 01:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18305858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tepre/pseuds/Tepre
Summary: Harry took lodgings in the Leaky. Third floor, fifth room on the left. That’s how they ran into each other: out in the hallway at two in the morning, Draco in a housecoat and slippers, sleepy and bleary eyed, asking what the ruckus was about. Harry couldn’t get the key to work. He’d been kicking at the door.





	Twist and Pull

**Author's Note:**

> A quick lil sm'n!! It's angsty and then it's fluffy and then it's really fluffy and then it ends. Inspired by carpemermaid's gorgeous art, which can be found [here!](http://carpemermaidart.tumblr.com/post/183750501949/a-little-8th-year-lazy-afternoon-drarry-in-the)

It wasn’t anything, that first half year. Later, much later, they’d declare that foggy period a grey area of their relationship, one which Draco recalled with far more glee than Harry would. _I was horrible back then,_  Harry would mumble, upset with Draco for not being upset – and Draco would laugh a loud, _I say!_  Then correct, _You were tired, my love. You were simply tired._

It was the summer before 8th year. Grimmauld Place was a shell of a house, gutted out by war, weeping at its own misery – the portraits on the walls wailing through the night, the floorboards creaking, the doors unwilling to stay shut. Harry spent half a night there and left, bag and broom in hand, furiously muttering to himself about not being able to get some  _goddamn rest._

He took lodgings in the Leaky. Third floor, fifth room on the left. That’s how they ran into each other: out in the hallway at two in the morning, Draco in a housecoat and slippers, sleepy and bleary eyed, asking what the ruckus was about. Harry couldn’t get the key to work. He’d been kicking at the door. 

 _Merlin’s sake,_ Draco said, looking like a puffed up cat.  _You—give here, you just twist and pull and—_

The Manor had been gutted out, too. All other properties confiscated. He was to stay there, until the school year began. He didn’t want to go, he explained in a furious rush over breakfast, and if Harry for a moment thought that Draco  _would even consider attending were it not for the outrageous restrictions the ministry had—_

Harry interrupted him by throwing his cutlery onto his plate. By getting up and leaving, not a single word added. All he’d wanted, he told himself again, locking himself up in his room, was some  _goddamn rest._

But rest he wouldn’t find, not that summer. Not at the Leaky, not with Draco Malfoy, jittery and strangely chatty two doors down – always walking by in a huff, trying to take his meals at the same time as Harry’s, leaving his door open so that when Harry passed by he’d be quick on his feet with questions: why must Harry always march down the hallway like a Hippogriff in heat? Why must he burden Draco with that sour look? Wasn’t Draco just asking, just making conversation? And where was he going, anyway, all the live-long day, and where was he coming from, and would he just wait up a second, wait,  _wait, you can’t just – I say, that’s horribly rude, walking away while I’m talk–!_

The first time it happened it was simply a half-drunk mistake, a crossing of wires, a confusion. Harry had come back from a grief-laden dinner at the Burrow. He’d drank one too many whiskeys, which Arthur had kept offering. Draco seemed to have waited up, was lingering by the doorway when Harry came up the stairs.  _I say! What time do you call this?_  had been the greeting, following by a barrage of needling comments:  _What ever might be the reason, I do wonder, surely you needn’t be sneaking around at the ripe age of–_

Harry had spent a half hour holding a crying Ginny in the bathroom, that night. Had not been able to hold Arthur’s gaze on leaving. Draco knew nothing, absolutely nothing, and Harry lashed out – shoved him against the doorpost, roughly, asked,  _Hasn’t it been enough, Malfoy?_

And then, when no answer came – when Draco simply gazed up, startled – Harry growled,  _What do you_ want  _from me?_  


“I–” Draco started, never finished. His hands were fisted in Harry’s jacket. His breath a shudder on Harry’s cheek. How the kiss had started would forever be a mystery, to the both of them, often considered but never resolved: neither could recall who had started, who had pulled the other first, only that it had happened and that it was rough and a little painful and that Draco had most certainly whimpered, knees going weak in his housecoat and slippers.

Draco had pulled Harry into his room, had pushed him up against the door, had nearly tried to climb him in his urgency. And Harry, to his credit, was helpful enough – let Draco hoist himself, wrap his long legs around Harry’s waist. Stumbled the both of them over to the bed.

It was the quiet hour before dawn by the time Harry left Draco in the shabby bed of the inn, left to return to his own room.

The second time it happened was a short few days later and all but a minute after Harry had grandly announced that he’d never again touch Draco – that you couldn’t pay him  _enough_  – and Draco had shoved at him. Once, twice, colour high on his cheeks – eyes wet – and Harry had to stop him from leaving with a hand to his elbow. Reel him back in. 

The third they didn’t talk much at all. Draco had simply left his door open, as he usually did, and Harry walked in. Closed it shut behind him.

“This stops when we go back,” Harry told him, one evening, mouth hot on the sharp jut of Draco’s hip.

“I say, must you mention school? Such a turn off,” Draco said, then gasped as Harry’s mouth moved, opened. “ _Merlin_.” 

They made out hot and heavy in a little nook out by an alleyway behind King’s Cross, their trunks left in a puddle of rain.  _Okay,_  Harry kept on saying, as though in finality. As though that was that.  _Okay,_  Draco would parrot, breathless, and reel him back in again, hiding his hands in the pockets of Harry’s jacket. 

“So strange,” Hermione said, as they all settled into their compartments. She was worrying the inside of her cheek, peering out the window. The platform was emptier than ever. Ron’s hand was sure on her knee.

Harry could still feel the dig of Draco’s teeth on his bottom lip. “Yeah,” he agreed, and tilted his head back. Closed his eyes.

But then the Slytherin table was nearly empty. And then Harry had his eye sharp on the two girls who got sorted into the house – only two! – and how frightened they were, shuffling over to the table. He stared, unsettled, as Draco prepared each of them a plate of the best foods on offer. Had clinked their glasses of pumpkin juice together in cheers, mouth softened with a smile.

He cornered him in the loo halfway through the meal. Draco was washing his hands, rolling a milky soap between his palms, over his fingers. He ran them under the water. Dried them with a quick flick of a drying spell.

“I thought we weren’t going to,” Draco said, muffled into a kiss. Harry was trying to herd him into one of the booths. He wanted him out of the robes. They were too familiar, too old.

“Classes haven’t started yet,” was Harry’s explanation, and tugged sharply on Draco’s hair – exposing the line of his throat. Sucking a bruise to his pulse point.

“I say,” Draco sighed, his grip a vice in Harry’s hair.

But then the 8th years had to share a common room. But then Draco had taken to reading in a seat by the fire, had taken to falling asleep reading, had taken to draping his robes over the back of the chair – to mulling about in soft-woven things, pressed trousers, jumpers, ochres and greens. Harry would get angry, would wake him from this slumber by spelling a hooting duck noise across the room at a rather confused Ron. He’d make sure to walk by in hallways, hustling Draco’s shoulder, making him stumble, calling a loud,  _What!_  when Draco would give him a look. He’d pull and push at every opportunity, would be mean about it, would then crumble and cave and wait until the common room was deserted to turn soft again, to put his hands under those ochres. Those greens. 

“Last time, I presume?” Draco would ask, always mocking, though his voice would be thin – shaky – lying back on the couch, Harry over him. Between his legs. Harry’s hands over Draco’s ribs.

“Last time,” Harry would whisper, words cool on Draco’s wet mouth.

Halloween Harry got a little sad and drunk and into a fight with a Ravenclaw because he thought something had been said about Fred, but nothing had been said about Fred. McGonagall gave a half-hearted lecture on alcohol on school grounds, looking like she could use a sip of gin herself. Draco found Harry in the dorms, sitting miserably on the edge of his bed. He tutted, cleaned Harry’s busted and bloody brow with a wet cloth. The drink had made Harry slow and soppy, and he stared, watched as Draco focused on his work. He pushed Draco’s jumper up with clumsy hands. Kissed his belly button. Draco’s shivered, his skin bunching – goosebumps.

“What’s this?” Draco whispered, pushing Harry’s hair out of his face.

“One more,” Harry said, nonsensically, and kissed one inch to the left.

Christmas felt much like their time at the Leaky had: just the two of them, nearly alone at the dorms – arguing over breakfast, avoiding each other during the day, slipping into each other’s beds at night. Much the same but also not the same at all, because Harry’s anger would sometimes shift into something saccharine, something that would make him count all of Draco’s fingers and announce that he had ten. Something that would make him spin Draco in his hold before depositing him in his bed. Something that would make him listen, humming, as Draco explained the rules of one or another Wizarding game he’d played as a child.

But then the year barreled on, and end January saw Draco’s trunk mysteriously upended and its contents strewn all over the dorm, no explanation whatsoever. February saw Draco’s bed slashed, his books blackened out, and in March came the kicker, the heart-stopping moment when Harry pushed his way through the crowd outside the dorm. The announcement had been spelled in foggy letters above the bed’s canopy, floating, dripping.  _Death eaters out,_  it said. A simple message.   
Draco was on his knees, trying to pack his trunk with trembling hands, movements frantic. Dean was attempting to get the words to disappear, to no avail.

“As if I’d stay,” was Draco’s shaky announcement to the room, trunk shrunken down, pushing his way past stares and unmoving shoulders. Harry watched him go, throat thick, hands sweaty.

“Someone did it during Charms, we think,” was Dean’s mumbled explanation. He was still trying to get it down, couldn’t manage. Flicked his wand with irritation. “ _Damn it._ ” 

Harry found him outside of McGonagall’s office. His trunk was back to its normal size, flung sideways in irritation, middle of the hall. Draco was sitting against the wall, knees drawn up. Heels of his hands dug into his eyes. Harry’s chest felt tight. His heart either shrinking or growing, he wasn’t sure which.

“She won’t let me leave,” Draco said, voice strangled. “I don’t even want to be here. I don’t even  _want to be here._ ”

“I know,” Harry said, then didn’t know what else to do. He stayed there, standing for a while.

After a long moment, Draco choked out a strangled, “Merlin, what do you  _want_  from me?” He was breathing unsteadily, still not looking up. 

Harry shrugged. He didn’t know. He left, eventually, feeling each step stretch between them as he walked away.

The next time Harry sought him out – and it was, for all intents and purposes, always Harry who sough him out – something had changed. Draco’s mouth was slow on his, hesitant, like he might pull away. Harry held him close, touched his face a lot. They were in an unused potions classroom. The dust made Draco sneeze, startling them both, and Harry said,  _Oh, bless you._  Draco thanked him, looking miserable, and Harry settled his hand over Draco’s jumper, over his heart. 

“One more time?” Draco asked, voice small.

“Sure,” was all Harry could say, swallowing. What a horror, he thought. Feeling someone else’s hurt as though it was your own.

Draco’s mood, however, persisted. It persisted throughout the next week, and the week after, as though he’d been drained, each night again, of something vital. Harry made an honest attempt at not quite caring. He recalled being the one who  _sought_  to make Draco like this, recalled being angry with him, ruffled by him, driven mad by him, and couldn’t hold on to the feeling for the life of him. All that was left was a soft spot at the back of his heart. An ache. 

It was early April when Harry dragged him to the empty fields up behind the quidditch stands. Draco had come along reluctantly, lackluster in announcing that he cared not for rolling about in the mud. Harry pulled him along – their fingers loosely linked – and said they were not there to  _roll_. They were there to fly. 

“Oh,” Draco said, pausing in his step. He didn’t have a broom anymore.

“You could use mine,” Harry said, turning back, stepping close. He was a little taller like this, standing up on the incline. “Or we could fly together.”

Draco’s eyes flashed something awful, a memory, and Harry was quick to add a soft, “Or you just . . . read. In the sun. And I’ll fly.”

Draco frowned. “I say. Whatever for?”

“Oh, I don’t know. For fun? To get some rest?” And then, when Draco’s frown deepened, Harry laughed – stole a quick peck of a kiss, pulled him with all the way up the hill.

Draco was skeptical, at first. Sat in the grass as though it was bound to be a joke. He looked about the weeds and the rocks with a raised brow, unsure of what to do next. He’d taken a book from his bag. Held it in hand, unopened. The clouds passed quickly over the sky, throwing valleys into shadows and then into the bright sun, all at once. Meadow flowers were blooming, bugs were buzzing about. Swallows jumped up and down on the horizon.

Harry zoomed about on his broom, took a deep lungful of spring. He didn’t go far, or high, or steep. Draco watched him, leaned back on an elbow. Harry was startled to find him beautiful. Startled to find Draco’s mouth a familiar, to find the squint of his eyes against the sun a darling sight. Heart thudding, expanding, he looped wildly in the air – a silly manoeuvre, a 3rd year trick. Draco smiled, a chuckle, and Harry was spurred on. 

He zig-zagged at high speed then stopped, cooly, throwing Draco a look. Draco laughed this time, shaking his head.

“What?” he called over a gust of wind.

Draco waved him off, still shaking his head, then opened his book. Pretended not to be paying attention.

And so Harry spent the next half hour with the sole purpose of distracting Draco from his book. Of making him laugh. He wheezed by low to the ground, fluttering Draco’s hair; he made his broom bounce by as though it was a horse; he flew upwards sideways, holding on as though to a pole, one eyebrow raised at Draco as up he went.

“Sweet Merlin,” Draco muttered to himself, entirely disapproving. Harry laughed, loud and happy, and zoomed back up into the sky. Let the feeling do as it will, flutter wildly within him, then looked back down. Half in the sun, Draco was turning a page. He had on purple socks. The sleeves of his jumper edged over his wrists, just a little too long.

Harry was quiet about it next time he flew down toward the ground. He hovered over a soft hill behind Draco, creeped in close, grinning. He flipped backwards over the broom, hanging upside down from the handle. His shirt rode up, and a breeze tickled over his stomach. Draco still hadn’t noticed he was hovering right by his side.

“Hey,” he said, close to Draco’s ear, and Draco jumped, yelped – automatically hitting Harry with his book. Harry laughed, trying to protect himself with a quick,  _hey!_ , but Draco was faster still, hitting him again with purpose, not too hard, calling him a–

“–daft prick, think that’s funny? In all my days I’ve never . . . !”

He trailed off as Harry balanced himself with a hand to Draco’s shoulder. Even upside down, Harry could see the colour spread across his cheeks. The smile folding into his cheeks.

“Show off,” Draco muttered like it was a compliment. Then, nodding his face closer, “What? What do you want?”

“A kiss, please,” Harry said, voice deep with the angle of his throat, and Draco laughed softly – grabbed Harry’s jacket, hanging down his back, and pulled him close. Caught his upper lip, kissed it. Moved to Harry’s bottom lip with a lick, a warm touch. He was smiling into it, still, and Harry felt warm all over. His skin shivery.

“One more?” Draco said, lips still moving against Harry’s.

“One more, please,” Harry mumbled into it, blood rushing to his head, making him woozy. Dizzy.

It wasn’t anything, they’d decide later, that first half year. What followed after, Harry was much fonder of remembering, much fonder of retelling. The slow unfolding of his heart, the year in which they’d gotten to fall, step by step, into one another.  _Absolutely no idea what we were getting ourselves into,_  Draco would say, reprimanding the memory of their younger selves, lounging between Harry’s legs – half distracted by the newspaper. 

 _A gross exaggeration_ , Harry would correct, mouth to the line of Draco’s hair.  _I’m sure we had an inkling._


End file.
